The Intelligencer is off the the editor! Here's a look at Ch. 1

Intelligencer: a person who gathers intelligence, especially an informer, spy, or secret agent.

"Careful you don't give her a good show," said Cormac the minstrel, lanky and grinning, one shoulder resting on the wall.

"Wheesht. I'm giving no one a show," Sir Law Kintour said. He reached for a tiny jar sitting in the window, pulled out the cork releasing a sharp, musty smell. The canoness had told him swallowed it was poison, but when the cream was rubbed on his scars it eased them a bit.

When there was a tap on the door, Cormac opened it. Anny Cullen stood there with a steaming bowl in her hands. At twelve, she had started to look much like her mother, sturdy and muscular. She smiled at him shyly.

He watched as she put the bowl on the wobbly little table in the middle of the room and pulled a long rag out. She twisted it hard to wring out the excess water.  He held out his hand. "Give it. You'd best run along to help your mam." He took the rag gingerly away from her since it was still steaming in the chill morning air.

"Careful and don't let it cool off."

"You could have brought us up some bread and cheese when you came," Cormac grumbled. He gave her his best attempt at a piteous look, but it worked poorly with the wry twist to his mouth.  

"If you want bread and cheese, you go down and tell my mam." She frowned at him, but then her round, freckled face lit up with a smile for Law. "Go ahead, Sir Law. You dinnae want to wait. It will only help while it's still hot."

Law smiled but he thrust his chin toward the door. "Not until you're gone, now shoo."

"You will use it?" she asked.

"I shall." He forced a smile over his gritted teeth, just anxious for her to leave. "Thank you, lass."

"You're welcome." With a glance over her shoulder, Anny left and the door closed behind her.

Law unfastened the laces of his tights and pushed down the one on his left leg. He rubbed a bit of the thick, numbing ointment on, and gave Cormac a look. Cormac had seen the ropy, red scars before, mangled by a lance during the Battle of Verneuil in France, but Law still didn't like showing them. But Cormac had taken out the deadly sharp sgian-achlais  he had taken to carrying in an armpit sheath and was cleaning his fingernails.

Law breathed out a soft snort. You could take off a finger with that knife but shook his head and quickly wrapped the steaming cloth around his thigh and sucked in his breath at the heat on the sensitive scars. He trained the day before with wardens of the burgh to keep himself in fighting fit, and now his bad leg felt like it was being ripped with a lance all over again. Even after these months, he missed his life before. It had been good, but in the end the battle lost him his lord, his rank, and his dearest friend. Now he had nothing but his armor in a bag, some worn clothes, and a limp. He still had a fading bruise that covered his forehead from when he was attacked a few weeks before by a mad friar. 

Cormac held out his hand, examining his nails closely. They were longer than most men's because the clàrsach that he favored was plucked with the fingernails.  "She's sweet on you, you ken." He seemed satisfied with the state of his nails and slid the blade away.

Law lived in a small room above a shabby tavern run by the girl's mother and father, although she was now old enough to do some of the serving. "She's still a wean," Law said. "What is she? Twelve?" Law grimaced at the heat from the cloth wrapped tightly around his leg. It hurt so that he could barely keep still, but it was beginning to ease the deep pain in his leg. He could feel the muscles unknotting as the heat seeped in. Though still a bit tight lipped, he said, "She'll soon find someone else to make doe eyes at. You, mayhap."

Cormac threw up his hands. "Not if I can help it. Her mam would have my hide and hers if she looked at a Hielander. Any road, soon enough they'll look for a sturdy burgher for her. Neither of us are such a prize."

He grunted. Cormac was right that he was no prize. A landless knight was never a sought after, and he even less than most. He might have been born into the small nobility from a family with ties to the great Douglas clan, but he had fallen as low as a knight could. He still had his gold spurs and his arms, but what good did that do him with a lame leg? He wasn't so bad looking, or so he'd some had told him even if it was at night in a hot embrace. He was taller than most men and lean and muscular with a full head of light brown hair, but a lord didn't take a knight into his service for his looks, but on how well they could fight. He might hold his own in a street brawl, but he would never be fit for battle again.

Cormac smoothed his red and white striped doublet and re-tied one of the green ribbons on his sleeve while Law unwrapped the cooled cloth from his leg and pulled his stocking up. He turned to look for his boots to find Cormac holding one and shaking his head over its worn state. "That's pathetic. Dinnae you ever buy new ones?"

"Give it here," Law said.

Cormac tossed the boot to him and turned to open the door. "I'd better find someone to pay for my songs," he called back. "Bidh mi 'gad fhaicinn." He ran down the rickety stairs.

"Aye, see you later, Cormac."

Law drew on the boot, found the other and followed Cormac down the stairs. The minstrel had disappeared although he'd be back later to play for the inn's customers. For now, the only people there were Anny sweeping the bare wood floor, Mall stirring a big pot that had a scent of thyme that must be for dinner, and Wulle talking to the only customer, a tall red-haired man named Andrew Bouquhen, a candle maker with a shop not far away.

There was barley bread and a big round of cheese on the long table that separated the room from the barrel of ale, so Law helped himself. Mall nodded, and he knew she'd add a chit to his tab for his room did not include meals. The he carried them to seat at the back of the inn. He put a sliver of cheese on a bit of the barley bread and chewed them. Simple but hearty and he was not going to complain. Besides, he was glad not to have any reason to go out. Here inside, the rich cheese and the soft crackle of the peat fire in the open hearth were as warm as a grandmother’s embrace. He chuckled at the thought. He must be getting soft.

Mall brought over a cup of ale. He was about  to take a swallow when he noticed a small, bow-legged man standing in the doorwas, picking bits of straw off his blue knitted cap.

"You're letting in the damp," Mall scolded.

The man closed the door, raised his blue knit cap to Law, and clapped it back on his head. “You’re Sir Law Kintour, are you?”

Law contemplated his half-finished piece of cheese, the fire and the cup of malty ale. He sighed. “Aye. What is it you need?”

“Mistress Elspeth Buchan said to fetch you, sir,” he said. “The maister has gone missing and she wants you to come right away. She’s that upset about it.”

The Templar's Cross now on Amazon!

Sir Law Kintour has returned from the war in France crippled, broke, and in need of a patron. In desperation, he reluctantly accepts a commission to find a nobleman's runaway wife. He enlists the help of a fellow Scot with whom he escaped after their defeat at the Battle of Verneuil. But his friend is murdered, and Law discovers he has been lied to. As the murders continue to mount, powerful interests come into play. When the Sheriff of Perth considers him a convenient scapegoat, it gives Law no choice but to untangle the lies and find the killer or hang for the murders. 

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Templar's Cross Giveaway!

The Templar's Cross, currently on pre-order on Amazon, will be released for sale on August 7. As a Giveaway for the release I will gift a copy of the novel to any of my Twitter followers who tweets a link to it on that day either on Amazon US or Amazon UK. (It will later be available on Barnes & Noble and Apple)

Not currently following me on Twitter? I'm always pleased to have new followers and my handle is @JRTomlinAuthor.

Once you tweet the link on that day, please DM me with your email address so I can gift the novel to you. And I very much hope you enjoy this novel. It stretched my wings a bit writing it, but it won't be my last medieval mystery.

Sir Law Kintour has returned from the war in France crippled, broke, and in need of a patron. In desperation, he reluctantly accepts a commission to find a nobleman's runaway wife. He enlists the help of a fellow Scot with whom he escaped after their defeat at the Battle of Verneuil. But his friend is murdered, and Law discovers he has been lied to. As the murders continue to mount, powerful interests come into play. When the Sheriff of Perth considers him a convenient scapegoat, it gives Law no choice but to untangle the lies and find the killer or hang for the murders.

US link: http://www.amazon.com/The-Templars-Cross-Medieval-Mystery-ebook/dp/B010BY72NC
US link: http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Templars-Cross-Medieval-Mystery-ebook/dp/B010BY72NC

Cover Reveal: The Templar's Cross

First I need to apologize to any followers. Because of a problem with depression, I took a lengthy break from blogging which I rather desperately needed. My writing schedule was also down. I am happy to say that I am now much better and have novels on the way.

The Templar's Cross will be out on August 6.

Sir Law Kintour has returned from the war in France crippled, broke, and in need of a patron. In desperation, he reluctantly accepts a commission to find a nobleman's runaway wife. He enlists the help of a fellow Scot with whom he escaped after their defeat at the Battle of Verneuil. But his friend is murdered, and Law discovers he has been lied to. As the murders continue to mount, powerful interests come into play. When the Sheriff of Perth considers him a convenient scapegoat, it gives Law no choice but to untangle the lies and find the killer or hang for the murders. 

And the cover reveal:

The Templar's Cross: a snippet

Templar's Cross will be out soon. It goes to my editor next week, so the snippet is not yet edited and takes up about when the last snippet ended.

On the way out of the tavern, Law sat down next to Cormac who had his harp in his lap tuning it. “Do me a favor?”

Cormac raised an eyebrow. “Aye, if I can.”

“Go to the blindman’s tavern and ask quietly if they’ve seen someone with hair so light it is almost white.” He slipped Cormac a merk. “I dinnae have time to go there myself.”

Rain dribbled down Law’s leather cloak, and cold water soaked through the seams of his boots. He turned west on Northgate and sloshed through the gate of North Gate Port where the road became rutted dirt that sucked at his boots as he slogged toward the Whitefriars Abbey. He wasn’t sure if they had a women’s hall since it was smaller than Blackfriars, but he knew it had a men’s guest hall for Duncan had stayed there when they first arrived at Perth. It was a long trek.

The dark hills loomed before him and soon the tree branches met and mingled overhead plunging the path into shadows as though he were passing through a long dark tunnel. The day smelt of rain and mud, and the wind carried a hint of a peat fire somewhere in the distance.  

When he stepped out from under the trees the the stone monastery and its high stone spire stood before him, surrounded by wooden buildings, guest houses, barns and fields of crops and cattle. Between knee-high rows of kale, two friars in brown robes with leather girdles with hoes over their shoulders trudged toward through the mist. There should have been a porter at the gate, but no one answered when he tugged on the bell.

He pushed open the gate and walked to the front door of the church, stamped the mud from his feet, and shook out his cloak. As he had hoped, bells for None, the midafternoon prayers, had not yet rung. Inside, a heavily veiled woman knelt before a statue of the Virgin Mary and another at the altar rail muttered a despairing prayer interspersed with sobs. A gray-haired, tonsured lay brother was polishing a silver reliquary.  Law cleared his throat and the friar looked up at him, allowing Law to catch his eye. The man, hands tucked into his sleeves, made his way to the nave where Law waited.

“Can I help you, my son?” he asked.

“Brother,” Law said with a nod of his head, “Mayhap. I recently returned from the war in France and seek to locate an old friend. I think he may bide in your guesthouse.”

The friar shook his head. “It isn’t the season for pilgrims, so we haven’t any guests with us the now.”

“He’s middling height and his yellow hair is so light it is almost white. Has anyone like that been here in the past weeks?” At the friar’s raised eyebrows, Law explained, “Mayhap I waste my time seeking him, but I’ve few friends left since—” He swallowed. “I was at the Battle of Verneuil, you see. So I am eager to find my one friend.” He knew putting one truth about his past in a tangle of lies made Law would make the story more believable.

The friar quickly crossed himself. “It was a sad day when we heard that news. The king ordered prayers for all lost there, especially the earls. I wish I could help, but no one like that has stayed in our guesthouse.”

“You are certain you’ve not seen anyone of that description?”

Rocking backward and forward on his feet, the friar stared into the distance. “Aye,” he said at thoughtfully, “I did see a stranger similar to what you mentioned not long past, two days ago it was. He was speaking to another man when I was carrying alms to the leper house. But he never abided here, so I fear it is no help to you.”

“No, brother, learning he has been in Perth and may yet be here does indeed help me.”

A bell began to toll above them. “I need to go,” the friar said hastily. “But I wish you well in finding your friend.”

Law pulled his cloak around himself when he went out into the dusk, but the rain had finally stopped. He picked his way along the path, back through the port into the dank streets of the burgh. Blackfriars was on the far north side of the city, and he preferred it was full dark when he met Duncan so he took his time as he walked.

A fog, thin and clammy, blurred the buildings as he passed. The crisp scent of autumn was quickly overlaid with the stench of blood and offal from slaughtering that was done in this part of Perth. His throat closed and he choked on the smell. Shutters were banging closed as he passed the tightly clustered buildings with jetties that thrust out above the street turning it into little more than a warren.  

He passed shadowy shops as the sun sank below the high city walls, shops with bloody beef carcasses stood next to poulterers where dark, motionless lines of birds hung, blighted, as far as he could see into their shadowy depths. The last of sunset’s light faded into black night.

In an open doorway a burly man stood silhouetted in lamplight, a pig’s carcass over his shoulder dripping gore down his apron. “Beannachd leat,” he called out to Law congenially.

Law had never had Gaelic but even he knew a civil good night so he replied, “Mar sin leat,” with a brisk wave.

Blackfriars was out of Perth and into a suburb at the far end of past the Red Brig Port. The street narrowed once through the port and his boots squelched in icy muddy of the roadway. A wing moaned through the pines setting branches to scraping and groaning. A fragment of moon slithered from behind clouds only to hide again. He grunted when he stumbled in a pothole.

Finally, he heard a mournful chant of vespers prayers roll from the monastery: Deus, in adiutorium meum intende. Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina. O Lord, make haste to aid me indeed, Law thought, and snorted softly at his foolishness. If he needed help he’d do better to depend upon his good sword arm for God, if the priests weren’t lying about there being one, did not seem eager to aid him.

Behind the monastery’s high stone walls, beams of light from the windows of the monastery broke the thick darkness or Law might have missed the alley were he was to meet Duncan. Fences on both sides formed a dark passageway.  He peered in and took a step into the narrow path. He didn’t want to call out but apparently Duncan had hidden himself well. Or perhaps he’d given up and gone back to the room he rented above a bakster. The faint chanting from the monastery ceased.

“Duncan, where in Hades are you?” Law called softly.

Running his hand along the damp wooden fence, Law walked into the dark pathway. A blackbird burst out of hiding almost at his feet with a clatter of feathers and a harsh squawk. The waving, pewter moonlight seeped through the clouds to make strange passing shapes on the ground over a dark lump against the dyer’s fence. Then through a break in the clouds a passing gleam of the moonlight reflected in wide-open eyes. The stench of blood and urine and shit mixed with hit Law’s nostrils. He stood frozen, hand on his hilt and then turned in a slow circle searching the shadows. Nothing moved, so he squatted beside the body...

Another snippet from my upcoming historical mystery

To be titled The Templar's Cross this is at an assize the day after the discovery of two dead bodies and Law Cullen, my main character, has been called to testify. Please keep in mind, it is unedited and a first draft:

Sir William’s scowl deepened. “Those clothes would have been worth coin and in the dark at least his cloak would have been easily taken.” He looked at the serjeant. “There is surely no possibility he would have been killed before nightfall.”

The serjeant, who Law was beginning to think might have at least a few more brains than he looked like, shook his head. “Someone would have seen him. It’s likely the stiffness would have started to pass had he been dead sae long.”

The assizer at the front of the group demanded, looking at Law, “You dinnae ken this one? You’re sure of it?”

“I’m sure of it. He does not look like a Scot to me. I never saw a Scot with that color hair.” He chewed his lower lip as he decided how much he should tell as Sir William grunted in agreement. “Mayhap it would be worth asking at the inns and monastery guest houses if they’ve had a guest by his description. There cannae be very many such hereabout.”

 “Yet you have been out of Scotland so you could have met such.”

“He could be English,” one of the assizers with the heavy shoulders of a master of the smith’s guild said.

Law made his face blank with boredom. “No. I never saw this one there, and I’d never take him for a knight or soldier, not even a cleric in those clothes.” Law thrust his chin at the stack of velvet at the foot of the table. “It seems to me the first thing is to find out if anyone has seen him about Perth. Someone must have.”

“Guesses achieve nothing,” Sir William said. “Does anyone have any knowledge to put forward?” When there was a nervous silence to his question, he turned his head to the assize. “Do any of you have any questions to put?”

“When did you agree to tryst for a drink with that one?” The hammersmith pointed toward Duncan. “Did anyone see the two of you to say you were not quarreling?”

“He came up to my room above Cullen’s inn before the none bell. I suppose Wulle Cullen might be able to tell you…?”

The innkeeper crossed his arms and nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, the man had been in my inn a handful of times. I cannae say I kent his name. I recall that he went up to yon Sir Law’s room yesterday and it might have been aboot the time he said. When the man came down he had a bowl of my goodwoman’s broth and left. If anything, he seemed more cheerful than before.”

“There is still fighting in France. Would it not have been easier to find a new lord there?” the same man asked.

Law examined the man’s face and wondered what answer would satisfy him. After a moment, he settled on the truth. “I followed my lord there. After he was killed, I had no desire to follow a Frenchman. And...it was time to come home.”

The man nodded, and when Sir William asked there were no more questions. Sir William took a seat in the large chair on the dais that could serve as a throne if the king were in attendance. The serjeant along with one of his men escorted the assizers out of their encloser through a rear door to a jury chamber.

Wulle Cullen wove his way through the crowd to Law. Shrugging, Cormac sauntered in the innkeeper’s wake. He shook his head. “Not oft we see two murders in one day.”

Law grunted. “I suppose not.”

Cormac muttered, “Even less often the murderer doesn’t dump the body in the Tay.”

“Wheest, Cormac, mind your place” Wulle scolded and got a glare for his trouble. “I wonder if they will take long. You’d think they wouldn’t have much to consider.”

“I suppose they must consider if it was I who did the deed.” He breathed a soft laugh through his nose. “I’ve killed more than a few in battles, but I’m no murderer.”

“Och, with so many of our men the fighting with the English in France, more than a few have done that.” The innkeeper slapped Law’s shoulder. “This testifying is thirsty work. I’ll draw you a mug of ale when we bide at home and no charge to you.”

“That’s kind of you,” Law said.

A thin, undersized man, his dark, stringy hair hanging over his small eyes in greasy locks, sidled close.

“Get away,” Wulle barked.

As Law stared after him, the man darted back into the onlookers.  “Who was that?” he asked the other two men.

Cormac shrugged. “What? No ale for me? You’re a tight-fisted bugger, Wulle.”

Ignoring the minstrel, Wulle said, “Dave Tailor, he’s called. Mayhap he tailors his clothes from the rats he catches.” Wulle snickered but his face straightened as he pointed at a door that a guard had pulled open. “Here comes the assize. I thought t’would not take them long.”

The fifteen men of the assize filed through the door held open by the serjeant and proceeded solemnly to the enclosure. A buzz of speculation went through the chamber. Sir William roused himself from dozing and stood. Once the serjeant climbed the steps to the dias and shouted for silence. Sir William briefly reminded the assize of the verdicts they were expected to bring and asked who would speak for them.

The burly hammersmith who had questions Law took a step forward. “I shall, my lord. Androu Gray, master smith.”

“And what has the assize found on the first death, Androu?”

 “We’re agreed that it is Duncan Kintour, and the death was foul murder by stabbing.”

“Very good. And do you agree to who saw to the death?”

“No, on that we could not. Two thought that it was yon Sir Law but the rest of us held that there was no way to ken who had done the deed.”

A hubbub started up and everyone in the room seemed to turn to mutter about the verdict. Law dropped a hand onto his hilt but most of the crowd seemed to agree.

The serjeant shouted for order. It took several shouts but after a few minutes the din quieted. 

“Keep silent or I’ll clear the room except for the assize,” Sir William said. “Now, Androu, what is the verdict on the second death?”

“We do not ken who is he, but most of us think he is an Englishman. Some have whitish hair like thon. It is obvious how he died, by murder from having his throat slit.” The smith frowned toward the draped corpse. “But it is a different kind of stroke. We thought it was most likely not the same hand that struck the blow.”

The Way it Goes

As you would expect if you know me at all, I am working on a new novel, but this is different from anything I've done before. It is historical fiction but the main character is fictional which is a huge change. It is going to be a historical mystery but I didn't want a monk as is so often the case with this genre and I wanted something just a bit darker. It has been a bit slow going getting started because it is so different from what I've done in the past but I believe it is gradually taking shape. So here is the start, completely unedited so allow for that, just a tiny snippet of what I'm working on:

A tiny peat fire in a brazier threw fingers of red across Law Kintour’s wobbly table. The room was small, smaller even than his tent in the days when he’d followed the duke to war. His narrow pallet bed was against the opposite wall to that he shared with his landlord Wulle Cullen and his wife. A single window overlooked the High street. Rain pattered against the closed shutters now, but when it was opened it looked out across the rooftops of Perth to the spire of St. John’s Kirk beyond the River Tay. The meager bits of furniture were rented with the room. A wooden kist near the door held the few belongings he had salvaged from the disaster in France.

Loud voices that nearly drowned out the sound of a minstrel playing a vielle filtered up to Law through the cracks in the wooden floor above Cullen’s tavern. The tavern was jammed between a brewster and a bakster with grayed timbers, the daub thin and flaking. The ground floor boasted a barrel of ale on a trestle, stools, a couple of benches and a long trestle table for eating. Bette Cullen could usually be found stirring a pot of broth that hung from a crane over a peat fire on the hearth whilst gray-haired Wulle bustled about tending to the customers.

Law hunched over the mutton broth he’d ordered from downstairs, though it had more of barley, onions and turnip and only a hint of meat to it. But he sopped up the rest out of the bowl with a hunk of oat bannock. When there was a tap on the door, he looked up with a belch.

Frowning, he pushed back the stool to step to the door and open it. “Yes?” he said to Cormac MacEda.

Cormac was a lanky man whose red and cream doublet with crumpled red ribbons at the seams Law always thought regrettable even for a minstrel. But his eyes were blue and playful in a boyish face. He closed the door behind him, leaned against it, and said, “There is a man in the tavern looking for you. His surname is Erskyn.”

“Looking to hire?”

“I think so. You’ll want to talk to him. He has enough siller judging by his dress.”

“Send him up, lad,” Law said. “Send him up.”

Interview with Historical Fiction Author Sarah Woodbury

I would like to introduce you to historical fiction writer Sarah Woodbury, the author of several fascinating novel with medieval settings, my favorite setting for novels. Thanks for dropping in, Sarah.


First, I'd like to ask when did you start writing? What was it you first wrote? 

Reading and writing are a part of my earliest memories of something that I liked to do. What I wrote most when I was younger was poetry (I’m sure very bad). Then, when I was about twelve, I began to focus more on schoolwork and almost forgot that I loved to write fiction and that I even had a creative side. Having children (and homeschooling them) encouraged my creativity again in my late twenties and thirties. A little over five years ago, at the age of thirty seven, I took the plunge and started my first novel. It was a straight-forward fantasy which will never see the light of day, though I’ve raided it since for characters and scenes.

I know you write medieval fiction. Would you explain why?

My books are all set in dark age and medieval Wales. It’s a crazy time period, in a way, because we know so little about that era. This gives more scope for fiction, which is an aspect I particularly enjoy. I fell in love with Wales when I lived in the UK during my college years. Plus, my family is historically Welsh, and I found learning about my own history fascinating.

What is your theory or belief on how historically accurate you need to be? How does that affect your story? For alternative history writers: how did you decide to change history? How do you reconcile it with “real” history?

I write historical fantasy, alternative history, and medieval mysteries, so I cover the whole gamut of types of novels where history needs to be more or less real. With my After Cilmeri series, which is time travel/alternative history, I very rigorously adhere to the culture of the day and the historical events that I don’t change. At the same time, my books take off on a trajectory that never happened, which eases some of these concerns.

For my historical fantasy books, I apply the same standard, in that the events are as historically accurate as I can make them, except when I add the fantastical element (in The Last Pendragon Saga, this would be the interplay between the Celtic gods and our world, and in Cold My Heart, it’s the use of the sight and that the book is about King Arthur, who may not have existed at all).

For The Good Knight, the first of my Gareth and Gwen medieval mysteries, the events related in the book really happened. I include no ‘fantasy’ elements, except for the existence of Gareth and Gwen, my two detectives. That and the specifics of the crimes they solve are the fiction part in my historical fiction.

What is the most surprising thing in the period you write about?

One of the continually surprising things to me about medieval Wales is how little we know about it. We don’t know birthdays. We don’t know the names of mothers. We don’t know the exact location of Garth Celyn (Aber), the seat in North Wales of the Welsh princes. Ignorance about the history of Wales is so rampant that there’s a story that one of the twentieth century owners of what might be Garth Celyn found ancient documents stuffed into a wall and burned them because they were in Latin and she couldn’t read them!

Do you run into common misperceptions? How do you deal with them in your fiction?

I think there is very few common understandings about Wales in the United States, because so few people know anything about it. At the same time, the country has been sidelined and the people ridiculed by the ruling power (England) for 700 years. I spoke with one Welsh person, living in the United States, who talks about his grandmother being ‘put out in the yard’ as a schoolgirl for speaking Welsh. The prejudice and misunderstandings between the English and Welsh are too numerous to mention.

Who would you most like to meet from one of your novels? Tell us about them.

I want to meet Prince Hywel. He is the second bastard son of Owain Gwynedd, a king of North Wales in the 12^th century. He’s not the main character in The Good Knight, but he plays a central role. He’s smart and resourceful and always strives to stay one step ahead of everyone else.

What is your next project?

I am writing the second in the Gareth and Gwen medieval mystery series. The first draft is almost complete and I’m very excited about the book. I can’t wait to share it … I estimate it should come out in mid-2012.

Sarah, thanks again for telling us about your fascinating work. 

You can find The Good Knight on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.  You will also want to check out her other novels such as The Last Pendragon and Footsteps in Time.

Interview with Mystery Writer David H. Fears

I'd like to introduce David H. Fears, author of the "Dark" series of hardboiled mysteries, set in Chicago in the early 1960s, historically accurate; lots of seduction and love triangles; sleuthing; complex plots and an interesting, likable hero. 

Thanks for answering some questions about writing a series of novels that combines hardboiled mystery with a historical setting, David. 


So when did you start writing? What was it you first wrote?

David:  The first grade. "Girl" was my first written word. The rest is history. Seriously, I came to fiction writing late in life, in my early 50's. I had to flush my academese style and learn the craft one item at a time. I did haunt some online crit circles, but am mostly self-taught.

What period do you write about and why? 


David: The early 1960s. I think because it is so rich in social change, reform, corruption, and also a simpler time for many Americans, if a stressful time for the nation. Also, I came of age in the late 50s, early 60s and know the time well.

What is your theory or belief on how historically accurate you need to be? How does that affect your story? For alternative history writers: how did you decide to change history? How do you reconcile it with “real” history?

Davd: My approach (not necessarily a "theory") is to utilize real events, places & people, then weave my fictional story & characters around historical accuracy. I don't make up events beyond that. In the 6 novels I've done I have used each subsequent year, beginning in 1960. I've included the following real events/people: Trenton Prison Riots of the 1950s, 60s. Purple Gang of Detroit; Mayor Daley's corrupt Chicago administration; police reformer O.W. Wilson; French Bonnot Gang; Portland corruption of the 50s, 60s, Big Jim Elroy, Stanley Terry rackeeters, Police chief, Mayor Schrunk, etc. I don't change history to fit the fiction of the novel, but adapt the fiction to fit history. Some names are fictional beyond the main characters.

Tell us about your main character, real or fictional and why? 

David: Mike Angel is a young man (30; fictional) who came out of Korea to join the police force with his father in NYC; like his father he refused to be on the take but also couldn't stand the administrative BS and control. He quit the force after his father retired and had just completed his first case as a PI. Mike then took up the torch to follow in his father's footsteps, but had misgivings all along if that was his true calling.  He struggles with a conflict about commitment and fidelity throughout the novels about women and one particular woman, Molly Bennett. His weakness is women in trouble who find him in each episode. Over 6 novels to 1965 he evolves somewhat, settling in as a fist-first but good investigator and slowly commits to Molly.

What is the most surprising thing in the period you write about? Do you run into common misperceptions? How do you deal with them in your fiction?

David: I was somewhat shocked at the level of crime, corruption, dirty cops, illegal gambling, prostitution, etc., especially in my hometown of Portland, where the last novel, Dark Moon, takes place. I deal with these by using real exposes, names, events, etc., and by immersing Mike into complex plots that make solving cases difficult.  

Who would you most like to meet from one of your novels? Tell us about them.

David: Ah, well, I suppose in some ways I've met each of my main characters, since I've lifted pieces here and there from folks I've known. Since I share Mike's sarcastic and smartass sense of humor, especially as he relates to his late father's retired NYPD detective Rick Anthony, I'd like most to meet Mike. I've met Molly already!

What is your next project? 

David: I'm continuing the last volume of a 4 vol reference work on Mark Twain, Mark Twain Day By Day. This is pure history using all available primary sources and much secondary work.  I have 4 more trips to make to UC Berkeley and the Mark Twain Project to read some 3,000 incoming letters to Twain. I have had small stirrings for a 7th Mike Angel novel but am letting that pearl choke on the irritation for a few months.

Do you use a pen name and why?

David: David H Fears (I use Mike Angel on the KB writers cafe, my protagonist's name. Much of the time HE comes out in my posts there--am I a split personality? Well, with my personality some split might help. I have written over 100 short stories and had a couple dozen published in print & ezine under the name DH Henry. I used it because many of my tales involved tail-chasing, and I suppose I wanted to see how they'd go over first. I self-published a print collection of them in 2001 from which I made a small amount after a 500 book run. I've also uploaded 44 of the best shorts on Amazon using the old DH Henry name. I now write only under my own name.

Thanks for vising, David. I really appreciate your time and the interesting answers.

Want a good mystery? Want more action for the buck? Try getting into Mike Angel's "Dark" Series: 

Dark Quarry is FREE until Christmas at Smashwords or available on Amazon. 

That is just one of this great series along with Dark Idol, Dark Lake, Dark Blonde, Dark Poison, and, just released, Dark Moon.

A Review: The Hadrian Enigma, a Forbidden History by George Gardiner

In many ways, Hadrian Enigma is simply a historical “murder mystery” seen through the eyes of a most unusual PI, the historian Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus. This novel, by the way, is rather a lengthy tome.

In 130 AD, while accompanying the Emperor Hadrian on a tour up the Nile, the beautiful youth Antinous plunges into the Nile and drowns. Hadrian, near maddened with grief, declares Antinous a god. However, Suetonius just happens to be along on this imperial tour. Already the author of juicy books on contemporary Roman life, he is perfectly placed to investigate this mysterious death, so Emperor Hadrian commands him to investigate and find the murderer within 48 hours or suffer the consequences.

In the imperial compound on the Nile, Suetonius searches for clues. Here, semi-isolated, the bubbling cauldron of the Roman court has been transplanted to a fabulous tent city. Yet, the mystery of Egypt is an ever present backdrop to this baffling death.

Perhaps the murderer is one of the other ephebes with whom Antinous shared quarters. They have reason enough for jealousy of the emperor's beloved eromenos. But there are plenty of other possible suspects and witnesses in the royal court: the Empress Sabina, Hadrian's flamboyant heir-apparent Lucius, and a whole coterie of scheming courtiers, not to mention the creepy Egyptian high priest.

Why was Antinous clad in heavy ceremonial parade armor and weapons when he died? How did he come by a slit on his left wrist and strange marks on his throat? And how can Suetonius unravel all this when the Emperor refuses to let Suetonius even touch the body to examine it?

The characterization is vivid and the historicity meticulous in this novel. I enjoyed savoring the characters and setting as Suetonius unraveled the imperial goings on. Some might find themselves impatient with the sprinkling of Greek and Latin throughout the novel. I thought it added to the impact and feeling of being there, but I suspect not everyone would enjoy the necessity to look some of it up. There were also moments when the author slipped into modern jargon which was jarring.

All in all, it was an enjoyable read, but not necessarily a light or fast one in spite of being rather a page turner. The ending, which I won't go into, is satisfying and well worth the journey.

Definitely a four-star read. I recommend it to any historical fiction fan, especially any fan of the redoubtable Mary Renault. You will find The Hadrian Enigma on Amazon at $9.99 for Kindle.